“I believe everyone is capable of change,” she felt the need to offer, not just on Monty’s behalf. She truly did believe it. She had to, or she would lose faith in all mankind. “Do you not think it so, Lord Rayne?”
His face was inscrutable, but his gaze, the color of hot cocoa with flecks of gold she had not noticed before, was intense. It warmed her from the inside out. “I think we are, all of us, what our lives have made us. There is no escaping that.”
She swallowed, knowing he was thinking of his wife.
Missing her.
Catriona resented the intrusion of the past, of the ghost who was never far from his thoughts. But then, the resentment was chased swiftly by shame. She had no right to envy a dead woman.
“What if we can be more than our lives have made us?” she asked quietly.
It was the closest she could bear to asking him if there was ever a hope he may find love again. Withher.
“Impossible, my lady,” he told her flatly. “The sooner you accept it, the happier you will be.”
Well, that rather explained his stance on the matter in crushing clarity. It had been a foolish longing on her part, anyway. She did not know where it had emerged from. Likely the shock of the day and the lateness of the hour.
“Or you can continue to have hope and faith,” she offered anyway.
“And be endlessly disappointed.” His voice was hard yet smooth, like a stone from a river bed. “Milk? Sugar?”
His change of subject was so abrupt, she blinked, struggling to find her way in their dialogue. Ah yes, he referred to the tea. “Both, if you please.”
With efficient movements that seemed at odds with his large hands, brawny body, and aura of danger, he prepared a cup of tea for her. When he held the finished product out to her, their fingers brushed.
Neither of them wore gloves.
She almost shook at the contact. Nothing much, just the brush of his callused fingers over hers. As it was, her heart pounded with so much force, she feared he would hear it, seated as he was on the adjacent settee. His skin was hot. He madeherhot.
And flushed. “Thank you, my lord.”
And clumsy. Her composure was badly shaken by her reaction to him, even after such an obvious rejection. She fumbled her saucer, then made an effort to right her cup, which only resulted in her spilling her tea all over her gown.
“Oh dear,” she muttered, looking about for a napkin and finding none. She lifted her skirt away from her thighs, where the dark stain had begun to spread on her pale muslin.
“Cristo,” Rayne bit out in his decadent voice.
She could not be certain what he had said, but she could easily venture a guess.
Likely, she had disgusted him with her late-night dash to his townhome, followed by the buckets of tears she had cried into his shirt. Now this. She could not even have a proper cup of tea without dumping it into her lap.
All because the Earl of Rayne’s fingers had grazed hers.
What was the matter with her? It was true he was the most gorgeous creature the Lord had ever fashioned—so beautiful he made her ache—but he was also the Earl of Rayne. He was cynical, detached, in love with a dead woman, set upon getting her with child and then leaving her…
But then, he was on his knees before her, a snow-white linen handkerchief in hand, dabbing at her drenched skirts. His head was bent.
“Maldición, the tea was hot,” he growled. “Did you burn yourself,querida?”
Dear.
Why did he insist upon calling her that? It made resisting his obvious charms so very impossible. She was staring at his thick, dark hair now, noting how it glistened in the candlelight, wondering what it would feel like, ever so tempted to tunnel her fingers through the wavy lengths.
Even his hair was handsome.
Of course it was.
She ought to answer him, she knew. Indeed, she had meant to, but she was rather distracted by his sudden nearness, the way he called herqueridain his velvet-gruff voice…
